


Dennis Sucks Crackhead Blood

by melonbug



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Blood, Blood As Lube, M/M, Sexual Content, Starvation, Vampire AU, Vampire Sex, mentions of drug use, vomitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 17:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13839357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbug/pseuds/melonbug
Summary: His tongue still tasted of blood and the sheets were wet with it where he lay wrapped in them. The smell was cloying and sticky and coated his throat and filled the air with the stench of iron. Dying in a puddle of his own blood wasn’t at all how he’d imagined he would go, but he’d asked for this.OrDennis becomes a vampire.





	Dennis Sucks Crackhead Blood

**Author's Note:**

> My first work in the fandom is weird vampire shit. Have fun.

Dennis asked for this; he’d bared his neck with shaking hands, the beating of his heart plumping the vein there. Begging was beneath him, but he would have done it; he would have dropped to his knees and wept for it. He hadn’t needed to. The woman pressed herself against him and breathed a kiss against his mouth and worked her way to his ear and he’d shuddered when she nipped at the tender skin there. “You were a good fuck, Dennis Reynolds,” she’d whispered. “It’s the least I can do in return.” Her grin had been malicious and her bite had been painful.

Then she’d left him there.

His tongue still tasted of blood and the sheets were wet with it where he lay wrapped in them. The smell was cloying and sticky and coated his throat and filled the air with the stench of iron.

Dying in a puddle of his own blood wasn’t at all how he’d imagined he would go, but he’d asked for this. And he hadn’t deluded himself for once. He knew it might kill him and the cost was worth it. Maybe he would live forever. Maybe he would be eternally young.

Maybe this would make him a God.

 

He woke and he was feverish, his body wracked with cold sweats and tremors. The sheets were stiff with the now dried blood; hours had passed. He tried to think but his mind was thick and sluggish.

The stench had only grown worse in the time that had gone by and now it turned his stomach. He made it to the edge of the bed in time to heave his stomach onto the ground. The vomit burned his throat and choked him, and he finished with a gasping breath, spitting and coughing up the last of it. His mouth tasted of bile and copper and the pool of barf on the floor was as much blood as it was the food he had eaten the day before.

From there on out he threw up only blood; her blood and his blood, until nothing came up but clear, viscous fluid.

 

He came to again, but this time it was to a loud beating on his door. It was Mac, voice muffled by the wall between them and by the pounding in Dennis’ ears. He caught the word Paddy’s and it occurred to him that maybe it was time to go in to work. If he remembered correctly, it was a Friday. They’d be busy.

Carefully, he dragged himself upright. When he didn’t immediately throw up again, he dared to move further. He made it to the edge of the bed, legs swung over the side, before the world finally pitched again around him.

“I’m sick,” he managed to call out evenly. If there was something he could do it was faking it. He’d spent his whole life throwing out false smiles and manufactured charm. He was proud that his voice didn’t so much as crack.

The door knob rattled and, in his alarm, Dennis lurched for the door. “Don’t come in,” he hissed, loud and angry. This was a different feeling entirely and a spike of adrenaline came over him. He made it to the door, pressing his back flush against it. The knob stopped rattling and when Mac spoke again Dennis could hear him loud and clear.

“Alright, dude.” There was an awkward pause. “Feel better, I guess.”

 

The shower he ran was scalding and filled their small bathroom with a thick cloud of steam. Dennis was cold, his skin frigid to the touch, and the hot water did nothing for it.

The water pooling at his feet was bright and red and slippery with the blood running off his body. He watched it swirl down the drain, mesmerized. The worst of it had to be scrubbed off and it pinkened his pale skin.

Beneath the blood were bruises, blossoming fresh across his flesh. There was a nasty one circling his wrists, where the woman had pinned him down as she’d drained him, her abnormal strength preventing him from bucking her off. In the whispers of his mind, when her teeth had first broken the soft flesh of his neck, he had suddenly regretted it.

He pressed his thumbnail into the darkest part of the bruise, slowly digging it into the flesh until he thought he might break the skin. He wondered if he would still bleed the same way. But the pain sent a shudder through him that went straight to his fuzzy mind. He focused on the feeling and it gave him the first bit of clarity he’d had since his change had begun.

The pain reminded him that he was really still alive.

 

He had until Mac got home to clean up the mess. He shoved the bloody sheets into a garbage bag and threw it to the back of his closet. He would have to burn it, find a hobo fire somewhere to toss it in. The blood had soaked down to the mattress and he tried and failed to get it out; in the end he flipped the it and made it future Dennis’ problem.

His strength hadn’t returned but he was alive and he was back in his own mind and it was  _ loud _ . He swallowed down the hysteria creeping over him with a beer, and then another, and then another. They were tasteless, nothing but cold wetness slipping down his throat, but the alcohol settled firm in his stomach and the buzz came on slow but strong. Twenty years of drinking and he couldn’t remember if he had ever managed to get drunk off of three beers, but there he was. His blood pumped slow but loud through his veins and the alcohol coursing through him finally made him warm.

 

He looked like shit. His skin was pale, his eyes wide and wild, circled with the dark smudges of age and mania and lethargy. His lips trembled at the sight of himself. To the left side of his neck were the bite marks, four holes dug deep into tissue there. Each one was a sharp pinprick of pain, swollen and scabbing.

He wore a collared shirt and buttoned it high to hide them. 

 

“You look like shit,” Dee barked at him when he stepped into Paddy’s; makeup only did so much and the lighting in the bar was a crime against humanity. Dennis sniffed, offended, but he didn’t have a come back.

At some point his strength had begun to return, little by little, and now he felt alive and itchy in his skin. He’d sobered up a bit, enough to make it to Paddy’s, and he wasted no time getting behind the bar and snatching up another beer to remedy that. The alcohol abated the horror welling up inside of him. If he kept drinking he wouldn’t have to face it.

It was late and Paddy's wasn’t busy now; Dee was the only one behind the bar. She regarded him with something bordering on a sneer but Dennis knew there was concern underneath the attitude. Dee did that. She  _ felt  _ things for people. “Nice of you to finally show up, by the way.”

He rolled his eyes at her and took a steady breath. “Fuck off, Dee. I was sick.”

She clicked her tongue in response, stalking over to the other end of the bar to grab up empty bottles. “Whatever,” she said. She gestured at him with one of the bottles, annoyed. “Just don’t get me sick, too.”

Dennis ignored her.

 

Mac stepped in from the basement a little bit later. “Dude, you look like shit,” he said the moment he saw him.

“I'm aware, thank you,” Dennis replied, voice smooth as butter.

Mac frowned, brow furrowed with concern. Dennis hated people worrying about him, detested the very idea that there were people in his life that expended energy just to worry about him as if the act of worrying would do anything. But Mac was different and the look on his face would have made Dennis feel obnoxiously warm inside if it was still possible. He chugged down the last of his beer and let the warmth it gave him fill that hole instead. 

“You shouldn't be here, Dennis. You're sick.”

Dennis shrugged. “Feeling better,” he told him. “Figured I might as well head over.”

In reality their apartment had felt suddenly small and the smell of blood had settled on everything and had begun to do something to his stomach other than turn it. It had made him hungry and he wasn't ready to face that part yet.

 

He didn't leave until long after everyone else did. He wanted to avoid Mac and their apartment and the reality of what he’d done. He drank until he threw it all up, and though the beer had been tasteless on his tongue before, it now came up acrid and vile. Then he sat for maybe hours in the shitty chair in the office, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

He tried to remember the woman and the temperature of her skin, the palor of her complexion. He’d been drunk and horny and she’d been hot with large tits and she’d been down to fuck, so they’d fucked. She had shivered in the cold of the room as she’d ridden him but she had been warm, her skin almost searing hot.

Dennis was only cold. 

 

The idea came to him a few days later. He spent most of it in bed, weak, curtains closed tight against the sunlight. The hunger had begun to gnaw in his stomach and it made him lightheaded and sluggish and weaker by the moment.

His breaking point was that night at Paddy’s. He stood leaned against the bar with one hand to brace himself against the constant dizziness. They weren’t busy, as usual, and his only real occupation at the moment was watching Charlie where he stood in the middle of the room, colorful balls clutched in his grimy hands. He was learning to juggle and he was doing a terrible job of it. He and Dee were laughing, her voice particular shrill against the onslaught of his growing headache.

Dennis, in his state, didn’t notice Mac come up behind him until a warm hand was suddenly pressed to the small of his back. For all that Mac was strong, his touch was gentle and cautious. It made Dennis’ slow heartbeat flutter in his chest.

“You’re really not looking so well, man,” Mac said, and Dennis wrenched his eyes away from Charlie to look at him. Mac’s concern was all too evident and genuine and Dennis felt the barest hint of guilt at being the cause of that expression on his best friend’s face.

But Mac’s touch turned Dennis weak in the knees for another reason all together. This close, he could feel the energy and heat he exuded, how alive he was, how strong and delicious his blood smelled. It took everything in Dennis’ power not to bare his teeth and press his face to the crook of Mac’s neck and—He took a trembling breath and lied through his teeth. “I'm fine,” he said. 

He had to do something.

 

Cricket was where he always ways, strung out down beneath the bridge. He had a nice setup there, complete with dry cardboard boxes and plenty of barrels to set fires in. Dennis made his way through the camp precariously to the corner where he was sprawled, wrinkling his nose at the sight of him; he was dirty and smelly, his eyes sunken in from his gauntness. But Dennis was  _ hungry _ and it was all he could think about. He was desperate enough that even Cricket was appealing, despite his given state.

“Fuckin’ christ,” he slurred when he saw Dennis. He had adorned an oversized hoodie, hood up to protect him from the burn of the sun. Cricket climbed upright, teetering. “Whaddayou wan’?” Bloodshot, watery eyes looked him over. “You look like shit.” He deadpanned.

Part of Dennis wondered if he was the victim of some kind of elaborate, fucked up prank.

“I need a favor,” he said at last.

Cricket was never one to turn down a proposition; money for drugs was money for drugs, it didn’t matter how he got it. Dennis hesitated, raking his eyes across the junkie’s trembling body. Maybe Cricket’s blood would make him sick; he was pumped to the gills with disease and drugs and only God knew what else.

Dennis’ fingers trembled. He imagined he might look like Cricket soon, with or without the meal before him. He’d done hardshit a few times, and the hunger for blood felt like the craving for another fix. Only this withdrawal he couldn’t ride out, and he was growing more and more certain that if he went any longer, he would kill for it.

“I want some of your blood,” Dennis said at last. It was a calculated risk but the urge overrode rationality. He licked his lips.

Cricket stared at him stupidly and gave the exact reaction that any normal person could be expected to make in such a situation. And on any account, it seemed to pull Cricket slightly from his stupor. “What the fuck.”

“What are you on right now?” Dennis asked in lieu of an answer. His heart beat fast because deep down inside he  _ knew _ and maybe this was what had led him to Cricket in the first place.

Cricket grinned at him and the teeth in his mouth were rotten and twisted. Dennis held back a gag. “Crack,” he breathed out. He paused for a moment, narrowing his eyes at Dennis. “How much?”

Dennis shook as he wiped a nervous hand across his mouth. “Forty,” he said at last. It was too generous. “And you don’t breath a soul of this to anyone.”

“Fifty.”

Dennis glared at him.

“I’ve heard about this, y’know, people drinking blood and shit,” Cricket continued, nonchalant about the whole situation even as Dennis pulled him roughly to his feet and hauled him along behind him. He barely heard him and managed only a raspy, “uh huh?” through the fog of the adrenaline racing through him and the jittery beat of his heart.

When he had Cricket out of sight of the homeless camp, he shoved him hard against the nearest surfacet. All he could think about now were the veins in Cricket’s neck, the warmth pumping fast through him. Dennis could smell the fear in his blood, and it taunted him.

He broke the skin hard and he was only just barely able to slap a hand over Cricket’s mouth before he could cry out. He was sloppy with it, blood leaking from around his lips as he guzzled. Cricket struggled only weakly, his thin frame easy to manhandle any protest from him.

Dennis gave him forty.

 

He showered after, scrubbed his skin until it was raw. He brushed his teeth but it did nothing for the taste of the blood in his throat. If he closed his eyes and focused, he could  _ almost _ taste the mint of the toothpaste.

But he felt better and color was fast returning to his cheeks. Cricket's blood did nothing to him other than bring him back to life. He felt almost euphoric, and the shake in his hands was now from the sheer adrenaline it gave him. It was like a high all it's own. 

 

It lasted for three days and in that time he was coherent and lucid enough to understand the gravity of the situation he was in. This was his life now. 

With his returned strength and hunger abated, he could almost pretend there was no difference at all. But food had no taste and the sun still made him weak and he was always cold and his heart beat a slow, agonizing rhythm in his chest.

And the hunger came back.

 

The woman was a six, six point five  _ tops _ . He’d met her in a bar, one of those places where he knew he could find an easy fuck. He’d charmed her back to his place no problem, all flashing smiles, a pit of desire building in his stomach with every brief touch that lingered between them. His gaze went again and again to her neck and he tried to settle his eyes instead on her chest, small but with a good bit of cleavage—she was wearing a push up bra, he decided—but his eyes always roamed, always looked hungrily back at the pump of blood threading it’s way along inside of her veins.

Mac was out in the living room when he came through the door with her, hand pressed to the small of her back, guiding her firmly in the direction of his bedroom. She shivered at his touch, and he knew his hand was ice through the thin material of her dress.

Mac watched them, brow pinched. Dennis didn’t linger long enough on his expression to read into it all that much; maybe he was annoyed that whatever he was watching on Netflix might be drowned out by the sex noises. The woman was enthusiastic, tipsy and clinging to him. She’d be loud.

Dennis didn’t waste time like he sometimes did; she was down to fuck and she started slipping her dress off the moment he closed the door behind them. Dennis raked his eyes over her body appraisingly. He was right. She was wearing a push up bra.

He fumbled with his belt and then his fly, kicking his jeans aside with an urgency he hadn’t expected from himself. There was a buzz filling his mind and his hands shook as he stretched and pulled his shirt off.

She straddled him, rocking her hips slowly against his crotch. He could feel the energy of it, feel a build up of desperate need rising within him. She was damp, enough that he could feel it through her panties, but all he could stare at was her bared neck as she tilted her head, how flush the skin was there as her heart raced with her lust. Carefully, he ran a hand over her shoulder, settling it against her throat, pushing his thumb into the pulse point there, feeling the fast thrum of her blood.

She stopped suddenly and said something and Dennis, so entranced as he was with it, didn’t hear her. He blinked up at her, arm falling to his side, breath suddenly catching in his throat at how mesmerized he had become. “Hmm?” He could tear her throat out, he could right now pin her down and drain her. He shuddered.

She was frowning and it was an ugly look on her. “You’re not hard,” she said, her voice tight.

Dennis stilled—some part of him had  _ noticed _ , but the moment had become too much and the hunger had clouded all else. He gasped in a breath and  _ tried _ , rolling his hips up against her, willing his dick to harden. It wouldn’t happen. He was horny as shit and he couldn’t get it up.

Maybe it was because she was sympathetic, or maybe it was because she thought she could do something more for him, but she leaned down, once again flooding his vision with the soft patch of her neck as she pulled her brown hair over one shoulder, out of the way, and she buried her face against his neck, kissing along it, giving the slightest hint of a nip. One more time he tried, rolled his hips up against her.

Nothing.

But she was too much, her neck so near his mouth. He could barely control the urge and he pressed his face there, dampening it with the wildness of his breathing. It would be so easy; already his canines were slowly pushing down, his fangs exposing themselves at the heady scent of her blood.

Rationality slammed into him suddenly and he choked on it, horrified. He shoved her off and she let out a cry. “What the fu—”

“Get out,” he hissed, wheezing it in his hysteria. “Get out,  _ get out _ .”

She stumbled from the bed and over to her discarded dress. “The fuck is wrong with you,” she said, loud and angry. “This because you can’t get it up, huh?” She dragged her dress on, fumbling with the zipper running down the back. “Fucking pussy, can’t even get hard—”

Dennis shrugged upright, livid at her reaction, a storm building up in him as he tried hard to control himself. It didn’t matter, she’d spilled him over the edge.“Get the  _ fuck _ out!” He screamed at her and it set her off.

She threw his door open and it shook on it’s hinges. “Fuck you, fucking sack of shit!” She was loud,  _ loud _ , and he stumbled to his feet after her, fangs out fully now, adrenaline driving him forward. He halted in the doorway and watched as she stormed from the apartment, slamming the door closed behind her.

He stood there in a daze, panting in his rage.

Mac was still in the living room, of course; it had maybe only been ten minutes. His eyes were wide, jaw slack, hands bunching and unbunching in the blanket thrown over his lap. He opened his mouth to speak, clearly intent on acknowledging what he had just witnessed. Dennis met his eyes and then slipped back into his room, slamming the door on him.

 

The thought of going back to Cricket, of having to  _ rely _ on him, made him sick to his stomach; going hungry was preferable. Except with the hunger came the lack of control and the urges and the shakes and—

He needed to be in control, needed to do  _ something _ , and so in the end he went back to Cricket, who all too willingly bared his throat for him. He didn’t ask uncomfortable questions this time and Dennis left him in a heap as he had the time before.

 

He avoided Mac, who shot him worried glances everytime he thought Dennis wasn’t looking. Dennis grit his teeth against it and committed himself to passing as normally as he could. He caked on foundation to cover the paleness of his skin; concealer for the bite scars on his neck, the heavy bags under his eyes; the palest pink shade of lipstick to hide the blue tinge that had been coming to his lips; he steadfastedly willed the shaking away, as the hunger again and again came on, and again and again he found his way to Cricket, who by now was haggling for more money.

He did the math; he could make it a few days with some ease before the euphoria of the meal left him and the hunger settled in again. But that euphoria was unlike anything else and he craved it more and more; he was mostly dead—at some point he had accepted that this was what it truly was happening to him—and the only force in the world that made him feel alive now was the blood.

For three days he would hum and energetically flit about; sometimes he’d  _ smile _ , and everything would seem normal again and the concerned glances fell away.

His limit was a week, and then he lost control. The urge would cloud his mind, would consume every single rational thought.

 

Mac confronted him, sometime about four or five days in, when the tremors returned with the discomfort and the lethargy.

“We need to talk.”

His face was uncharacteristically serious and he drew in a deep breath as he raked his eyes over Dennis. He had the day off, and in his state he had committed it to laying curled in bed in misery; he’d foregone makeup and fresh clothes. He looked horrible and it had been his hope to avoid Mac altogether, but he’d cornered him in the kitchen when he’d wandered out to grab a beer. Alcohol helped so much, made him feel warm and woozy in a way that wasn't from how sick and starved he was.

Dennis stood by the fridge, beer held loosely in his hand, stomach sinking. Mac gestured to the table and Dennis sat down robotically. He set the beer down carefully and hid his hands beneath the table to hide how bad he was trembling.

Mac sat in the chair across from him, arms folded on the table, eyes piercing. He took another deep breath. “Dennis, I need you to be honest with me, okay man?”

Dennis nodded as robotically as he had sat down, heart thumping. He couldn’t handle this conversation, and he hesitated to think he might even have the mental faculties to follow along with it, all things considered.

“What’s going on?”

Dennis licked his lips, clenching and unclenching his hands. “Everything’s fine,” he responded softly. The hum of the shitty fluorescent lights in their kitchen set him on edge and he chewed at his lip.

“You’re lying.” Mac refused to budge. He stared him down.

Dennis, not one to shrink away beneath anyone’s gaze, carefully inhaled through his nose, moving his hand to instead curl it around the edge of the table. “Yeah,” he breathed at last. “ _ Yeah _ .”

Mac leaned forward and into his person space; Dennis yanked himself away, his back going rigid as he pressed himself against the chair. His friend let his hand settle on the surface of the table, an invitation. “Have you relapsed?” he asked suddenly.

Dennis blinked, startled at the question. His voice cracked on the answer. “Crack?” he shook his head but it occurred to him, even as he did, that this was his opportunity. He could lie and chalk up all his strange behavior to an addiction and no one would be any the wiser. It was certainly more believable than the truth. “No,” Dennis said firmly.

Mac glared at him. “Charlie saw you, y’know. With Cricket, down by the river.”

Dennis froze, heart thumping. “That’s—” His mouth went dry and he swallowed heavily. “That’s not what it seems like,” he rasped. He’d been careful to make sure no one saw them, at least when Dennis was pressed into his neck, drinking. Surely Charlie hadn’t seen anything suspicious.

Mac shook his head. “You buying your drugs from him?” 

“No!”

Mac only deadpan stared back at him, unconvinced. “Everyone’s worried about you, dude. I had to talk the rest of the gang out of an  _ intervention _ .”

Dennis scoffed. As if anyone else in the gang was one to talk. He dragged a hand through his hair. “Everything is fine, Mac.”

“Okay, and what about the other night, huh?”

Dennis tightened his jaw, angry. “I’m not going to talk about that with you,” he snapped. The embarrassment was not that he couldn’t get it up—although that was still an embarrassment all it’s own—but that he had, for a split second, wanted to kill the woman and he almost had.

Dennis stood up abruptly, chair scraping loud across the floor. “I’m done with this conversation,” he said.

Mac was at his side before he could get away, snatching up his wrist to stop him getting to his room. Something snapped and Dennis rounded on him, angry, and Mac drew back in alarm. “Back the fuck off, Mac,” he hissed in warning. Against his better judgement Dennis shoved him hard, sending him staggering backwards.

Mac slammed into him before Dennis could even turn heel and leave and they both fell hard against his bedroom door. He struggled, desperate to get away, frantic and manic and at his breaking point.

This was supposed to make him immortal, forever young. A God.

Instead he was a miserable half dead abomination who had to resort to drinking the blood of nasty hobo crackheads, who didn’t even have the strength to get away from the strong grip on his shoulders, who couldn’t even get his dick hard for a woman anymore, because there wasn’t enough blood in his veins, because his heart beat too slow.

He managed to get the upper hand, wiggling downwards and jamming his shoulder into Mac’s chest, using his momentary advantage to turn the knob to his bedroom door. They both fell in and sprawled hard onto the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Mac straddled him, breath coming fast and short, pupils blown. Dennis didn’t bother to struggle, weak and defeated and  _ tired _ . His back hurt where it had impacted hard against the floor and the breath was damn near knocked out of him; he gasped lungfuls of it down, letting his head fall back onto the floor.

There was a long, awkward silence and Mac made no attempt to move; they lay there as they were, catching their breath and letting some semblance of calm return to them. Carefully and with an intimacy that rattled Dennis down to his bones, Mac pressed a firm hand to his chest, curling it into the fabric there.

“You’re so  _ cold _ ,” he said. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed heavily.

“Yeah.” Dennis wanted to spill the truth, to choke the words from his throat and make sense of what was happening to him. They were loud on his tongue, thick as the blood he drank. “Something’s happened to me,” he whispered at last. There were tears at the corner of his eyes and he blinked them away, disgusted with himself.

Mac settled back on his heels, lessening the pressure between them. Dennis realized belatedly that Mac was hard, his cock pressing insistently against the zipper of his jeans. Dennis bit his lip and tore his eyes away, completely overcome with all of it, with all of the turbulent emotions going through him.

He couldn’t stop the tears and he turned his head, trying to hide it.

Mac touched him, carefully took his jaw and turned him back to make eye contact. He leaned down until they were almost face to face and Dennis sucked in a sharp breath. Mac’s eyes were wet too. “Please,” he whispered. “Just talk to me, dude.”

Dennis didn’t think. He curled a hand around the back of Mac’s neck, dragging him down so that he could gasp against his neck. He pressed his tongue to Mac’s jugular and just the smell, of him and his blood and the sweat beading on his skin from their fight, was enough to stir his dick in his pants. And it felt good; how long had it been, weeks, certainly? Maybe months. Time felt slow now, ticking away in line with the dying beat of his heart.

He could feel the point of his fangs coming out and he ran his tongue along his teeth, testing their sharpness, very delicately letting them drag across Mac’s skin and then, just as abruptly as he had grabbed him, he pulled himself back from Mac, panting with the effort to not tear into the skin there.

Mac, when he looked at him, was wide eyed but flush, teeth catching on his lip. “Is this—Dude—” Mac licked his lips and slowly rolled his hips over Dennis’, pressing his hardness against Dennis’ growing erection. He squeezed his eyes closed and cried out and it was the most pitiful sound. “Is this what’s been going on, are you—”

“I’ll tell you,” Dennis said, cutting him off. His voice shook as he spoke. “I’ll tell you the truth. About what’s really going on.”

Mac considered him for a moment and then peeled himself away. Dennis let go of the tight breath he had been holding, relieved to have more distance between him and the temptation bared before him.

Mac extended a hand to help him up and Dennis took it, standing on wobbly legs. He dragged himself to his bed and set on the edge, pressing his palms to his eyes so hard he saw spots. This was it; there was no easy way to go back, now.

And Dennis didn’t know how to begin, where to start.  _ Oh, hey, I’ve been sucking Cricket’s blood because I’m a vampire now _ , didn’t seem a good place to begin. Instead, he said, “You’re not going to believe this, Mac.”

“Try me.” Mac was steadfast where he stood.

Dennis smiled and it bared his fangs, four pristine points of power in his mouth; he reached up and pressed a thumb to one and shuddered.

“What the fuck.”

Dennis closed his mouth and pressed his lips into a thin line. When Mac didn’t speak again, he said, “I told you, Mac, something  _ happened _ to me.”

Mac opened and closed his mouth, gaping like a fish.

“There was a woman and she, she bit me and so now—” He gestured again to his fangs, letting them flash briefly.

For a moment, Mac seemed unconvinced, expression pinched and jaw tensed. “So you like, you drink blood now?”

“Yeah. That’s why I’ve, uhh, been so sick.”

“From drinking  _ blood _ ?” Mac asked, bewildered.

Dennis grimaced at how it sounded. “ _ No _ , because I’m  _ not _ .” He drew to a stop there and inhaled slowly. “Not often enough.”

“Well fuck,” was all Mac managed to say.

They fell silent. It was the kind of awkward silence that ended conversations, but Dennis knew that there was no end in sight.”I’ve been drinking Cricket’s blood,” Dennis murmured after a bit, dragging himself further onto the bed. “That’s why Charlie saw me with him.”

Mac wrinkled his nose and gagged. “ _ Dude _ , fucking gross.”

Dennis exploded. “I didn’t know what else to do, Mac.” He grit his teeth, curling his hands into fists. “The longer I go—It’s killing me.” He pressed the bony tips of his fingers against his face, dragging them along the bags settled beneath his eyes. “I don’t know what else to do.” His voice was hoarse. “I’m losing control.”

Mac looked at him for a long while and then stepped forward, climbing carefully onto the bed and sitting hesitantly down in front of Dennis. Dennis allowed it, counting the rhythm of the beat of his heart to slow his breathing. Mac hesitated, fidgeted with his hands in the lap.

“You could, uhh—” Mac licked his lips, face growing flush. “You could maybe drink my blood.” His voice was tiny and tinny. Mac quickly cleared his throat and looked down at his linked hands. “You know, I mean—Until we figure something else out, of course.”

It was almost cute, the way his thumbs circled one another, the blush of red across his cheeks. Dennis stared at him, shellshocked. It was too much.

The kiss, when he pulled Mac into it, was rough and frantic and he clutched at Mac’s shoulders like they were the only thing left keeping him alive. Mac gave as good as he got and by the time they broke apart, he had pulled Dennis into his lap. He was flushed, lips parted, breath coming good and strong and fast.

But he looked at Dennis suddenly and bit his lip and Dennis saw hesitation in his eyes. “You don’t need to, Mac—” He couldn’t finish. A knot formed in his throat and he drew in a raspy breath.

Mac met his eyes and curled his hands around Dennis’ arms, rubbing them up and down. “You’re so cold,” he murmured, eyelashes fluttering.

Dennis grit his teeth. “Mac, please. If you don’t want to do this, I need to know. I need to know  _ now _ .” Already his fangs were tickling at his gums, his heart throbbing fierce in his ears. Mac touched his neck carefully and Dennis shuddered. Belatedly he realized that Mac had found the scars from his bite and he pressed a thumb gently against one of them. They had healed over lovely, with the exact shade of gray and blue to be expected from a dead body. Sometimes Dennis thought he looked like someone dragged out of a morgue.

Mac dropped his hand away and cleared his throat. “Will this—Will this turn me?” He asked, voice cracking. Mac’s nerves betrayed him, his hesitation visible in the air that hung between them. “I’d do—I’d do anything,  _ anything  _ for you Dennis—”

“Don’t say that,” Dennis erupted. “Don’t ever say that, Mac.” It made him ill to think how easy it would be to manipulate a person like Mac, who was so in love with him, whose every fiber of being lived for Dennis and what he meant to Mac.

“Will it turn me?” Mac asked again. His pupils were blown.

Dennis shook his head. “No, no—Not if I only—” He couldn’t bring himself to say it and so he gestured at Mac’s throat instead.

Mac took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, and Mac sounded sure this time, certain. Decided. “I want you to do this, Dennis. I  _ want _ —”

Dennis kissed the muffled  _ you _ from his mouth, licking into him as wildly as before and Mac groaned enthusiastically. They moved together fast, Dennis shaking as he rolled his hips against Mac. But he couldn’t quite get hard and he buried his face in Mac’s neck, trembling, desperate,  _ frustrated _ .

Mac let him have it, let him nose against him. Now that Dennis knew he had it, now that it was so close and ready for him, he found it in him to have a bit more control. He practically lapped at his neck greedily, panting. “How do you want it?” he asked at last, breathing the words softly against his skin. Mac was still rolling his hips up against him and Dennis was still settled comfortably in his lap, as if he belonged there. “Can I—” He shuddered against Mac’s pulse, pressing his tongue firmly against it, feeling the warmth and arousal beating through him. “Can I bite you?”

“Please,” Mac managed. His hands flew down to his fly and he worked at the tied string of Dennis’ sweatpants; they were pulled tight to accommodate his constantly shrinking waist and he almost hesitated to let Mac see him so fully, almost naked, his skeletal frame the proof of his condition. But when his cock was out and Mac had swiped his thumb across the tip, Dennis decided he didn’t care.

He returned to Mac’s neck and this time his teeth were rougher and urgent where he nipped at the flesh, making it tender and red and ready. Mac never once drew away and when Dennis finally sunk his fangs into his throat he cried out and tensed, body shaking.

Dennis knew it hurt and he knew Mac knew it would hurt; it was already done and he couldn’t stop. He pressed himself flush to Mac and held his shoulders gently and carefully Mac’s breath evened out.

His blood was as hot and thick as he had come to learn blood always was; Dennis didn’t suck at him the way he always did Cricket, eager to get the job done. But with Mac he went slow, licking at the blood running out of him, feeling it leak from his mouth. Mac only shuddered against him, giving an occasional sporadic roll of his hips.

The effect on Dennis was almost immediate. It was a high as good as any high he had ever experienced and he was an addict who couldn’t get enough. He felt suddenly strong and alive and somewhere close to  _ normal _ , but his mind ran a mile a minute, and his hands shook for a reason that wasn't weakness and starvation; It was pure and utter adrenaline, energy,  _ power _ .

He pulled away at last, when the blood finally ran slower. Mac shook but his eyes were still wide and he pulled Dennis into a kiss the moment he was done. The kiss was bloody and wet and heady and it made him dizzy with the pleasure of it. Mac licked at the blood left in Dennis mouth and blood, finally, surged to Dennis’ cock. Mac reacted to it with enthusiasm, stroking him with long, slow tugs that lingered on the head of his dick.

Dennis moaned loud into his mouth and tore at the fly of Mac’s jeans, freeing his cock and curling his own hand around it. He’d caught Mac masturbating before, more often than could be considered accidental, and so he knew what he liked and knew exactly how to get him off.

He focused on the base, squeezing it, pressing his fingers hard against the thick vein there. There was blood on his hands and it slicked the stroking and Mac rutted wildly against him, breath coming in short bursts. Mac painted Dennis’ name against his skin, pressing himself desperately against him. There was blood all over them, between them, soaking into Mac’s shirt where it still leaked slowly down his neck.

It drove Dennis wild.

They came almost in sync, Mac crying out his release, spilling come between them. He stilled, falling against him and Dennis slapped the slowing hand around his cock away and replaced it with his own, stroking fast and hard until he also came. He cried Mac’s name when he did and he didn’t stop licking at his neck, chasing every drop of blood he could find.  
  


 

Mac stretched out against him after, still sticky and wet with blood and come in their aftermath, both of them too spent to bother with cleaning up yet.

At some point Dennis untangled himself from him and padded out into the kitchen. Mac was pale where he’d left him in the bed, and he’d dozed off. He dug through the kitchen in search of food that wasn’t complete garbage and in the end settled on several apples, peeling them carefully the way Mac like it.

He set the apples and a tall glass of water on the nightstand and prodded Mac awake slowly. He pressed the water into his hands when Mac finally wobbled upright and he guzzled it down with barely a pause. “You should eat,” Dennis insisted. “Get your strength back.”

While he ate, Dennis finally set about taking care of Mac’s neck. His friend protested the whole while, insisted it wasn’t that bad even as Dennis smoothed a swatch of bandage over the holes in his neck and taped the edges down.

They sat there for a while, Dennis scrolling through his phone while Mac ate.

“Dude do you think there are others like you?” Mac asked at last. He took a large crunch of apple and chewed it thoughtfully.

Dennis frowned and fidgeted, uncomfortable. Suddenly he wanted a cigarette and he briefly wondered if he could still taste them. He caught his lip between his teeth, considering. “I mean, obviously I got like this because someone did this to me,” he said at last.

Mac waved a hand. “No, no, I mean like, werewolves or—” He wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. “And ghosts and such, you know? Dude, that would be awesome, wouldn’t it?”

Dennis interrupted him with a small grin. “Yeah, that’d be cool.” He hadn’t stopped to think about it once, but it made sense.

“But, you know, of course there are others. I mean, there’s Dee.” Mac’s eyes went comically wide and Dennis gave him a cheeky grin. “She’s a fucking harpy,” he finished.

Mac laughed and it made Dennis feel warm.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is interested, I run a Writing Server on Discord. Message me on tumblr if you're interested: melonbugg.tumblr.com
> 
> (also comments mean the world to me, please consider leaving one if you enjoyed it!)


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